


Asking

by Splinter



Category: Mad Max Series (Movies)
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Cunnilingus, Established Relationship, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Furiosa is the most eaten out character in fandom history, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Post-Movie(s), Undressing, Vaginal Sex, talking and not talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-25
Updated: 2017-02-25
Packaged: 2018-09-26 20:23:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,967
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9920864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Splinter/pseuds/Splinter
Summary: She’s coaxed fantasies out of him, but it takes effort. So when he does ask, even for a small thing, it’s not small.





	

He doesn’t often ask, as such.

Max will talk, when the mood is on him. His sentences might be short or broken, but the ideas behind them can be complex, even oddly poetic. Sometimes it’s more than sentences. He brings out stories, or terrible jokes, unexpectedly lucid explanations of engine repairs or old world concepts. Other times, he slides back into silence, though his glances and hums will usually get his point across.

“You must be fluent in grunt by now,” Toast teases. Furiosa is a little indignant – Max does so much more than grunting, and besides, his noises have always been easy to follow – but he laughs. 

In bed, he makes it very clear what he wants, rarely needing too many words for it. When he talks, it’s most often to make sure she’s fine with something, that she feels good. She’s coaxed fantasies out of him, but it takes effort. So when he does ask, even for a small thing, it’s not small.

“Let me?” She had started to take off her tunic, the soft one she wears after the day’s work, without her arm. It’s not something she needs any help with, and though they both know they’re going to fuck tonight, they’re not at the urgent stage yet, not pushing at clothes. 

He’d got back from a scouting trip yesterday, bringing little presents for the girls and detailed, careful news for the council. As soon as he’d handed them over, she’d dragged him back to her room, heated and eager, fucking him against the door then taking him off to wash. This morning, she’d woken to find him wrapped around her, stroking her almost before they were awake.

Now she leans back against him, with a questioning noise, because she knows that works. She’s encouraging him to speak, without pinning the subject down.

“I, mm. Would like to undress you,” he says, the words formal but his voice already husky. She hums her agreement, lets herself rest more firmly against him. She’s aware of her own heartbeat as he strokes two fingers along her waistband, pressing just enough that she notices the callouses on his fingers. 

She knows it at once, when he’s turned on. It’s just there, unmistakable, even when it’s only an undertow, before it’s explicit. The room feels different, as if the air has changed, his scent has changed. He hasn’t moved, standing behind her, but it’s like a physical weight, pressing slow and certain and hungry against her. She wants to squeeze her thighs together.

Max strokes one hand up under her tunic, his palm warm on her. His breath tickles her skin as he leans in to kiss her neck. When she murmurs, he pulls the tunic up, eases it over her head. She turns to face him, finds him smiling. For a man with such full lips, his smiles are small, a curve that only makes his mouth look plumper and sweeter. She kisses him as if she could drink him down.

Last night, she’d fucked him with the sweat and dust of the desert still on him, finding fresh bruises and small new scars. Now that he’s washed, what she can smell is entirely him, a faint musk that catches in her throat. She has a sudden urge bury her face in him, to breathe deeply.

“You too,” she says, tugging at his shirt. “Naked.” He does it at once, movements quick and clean as he pulls the shirt off, then he’s back onto her. She’s very conscious of his body heat, the way she can feel him even before he touches her. His hands are so large, so precise as he strokes up her sides, lingering over curves of muscle and bone.

One arm around her, Max tips her gently down onto the edge of the bed. She likes feeling his strength, more so because he doesn’t make a show of it, just holds her steady. She knows she’s staring, watching how easily his muscles work, the powerful line of his neck. When he notices, he gives her another of those small smiles. 

He drops to crouch at her feet, his hands skimming her side, her thigh. It’s light, but it’s as if his whole body is involved, a weight of pheromones and want behind each touch. Her breath is coming harder.

He undoes her boots, lifts one foot to pull her sock off. He’s trimmed the beard he grew in the wastes, but hasn’t shaved. It tickles when he rubs his cheek against the arch of her foot, surprising a laugh out of her. He does the same with her other foot. This time, she doesn’t laugh. She can’t stop looking at him, at his dark eyes, at his mouth.

She shifts her weight to help him undo her trousers, working them over her hips. He kisses his way down her as he pulls at the leather, getting his mouth on her inch by inch.

“Your thighs.” He’s nudging her legs apart, his voice a growl. He gives her a soft bite above her knee. 

“Missed a bit,” she points out, as he licks up her inner thigh. She wants it to be teasing, but she sounds breathless. 

“Missed you.” He noses at her crotch as he pulls her trousers off. She’s very aware of his hands, of his breathing, of just how close he is. He must be able to smell how wet she is. They haven’t talked about missing each other, about how she feels when he goes, how he feels when he goes. He kisses her hip.

Max straightens up to undo the cloth binding over her breasts, easing the fabric off and pressing his face against her, hands sliding up her back as he kisses her sternum. When she rests her hand on his neck, the raised scars of his brand are rough against her palm. She strokes upwards, fingers combing through his hair, closing into a fist when he sucks at her nipple. He’s careful as he moves down over her scarred ribs, the mark of where he’d stabbed her, but no less greedy.

She lies back, pulling him with her. He nuzzles down her belly to get to her underwear, rubbing his face against her as he finishes undressing her. He’s prowling over her, avid and intent. 

After a moment, he slides one arm under her waist, eyes meeting hers. Then he flips her, so precise that it feels gentle, turning her onto her belly. His hands slow down as he draws them out from under her, reluctant to let go. He presses a kiss to the small of her back, then pulls away to finish taking his clothes off.

She’s surprised when he moves back to her feet, kissing the sensitive skin on the arch of her foot, the strong tendon at the ankle.

“You going to kiss all of me?” Clearly, he is: he’s already working his way up her calf, his tongue teasing the back of her knee. She’s almost forgotten her own question by the time he shifts up, moving to lie over her. His chest is warm and hairy against her back, his cock hard at her buttock.

“Yes.” He’s speaking right into her ear, his breath hot. She’s already panting, her nipples hard against the sheet. She is so caught up in this, in his mouth and hands on her shoulders, on her back, in the way he makes her shiver. 

He slides back down, sure and firm as he strokes over her sides. He reaches her bum, works along the crease of muscle where her buttock meets her thigh. Nudging her legs open, he pushes his face between them, still unhurried as he works his way up to her cunt.

She's so wet, already dripping as he licks over the lips of her pussy. Max growls again, kissing her. She feels rather than hears the pleased noise he makes when she moans. He slides one arm under her hips, tilting her pelvis so he can get at her better, licking between her lips. She moans again, this time at the tease of it; from this angle, he can’t quite reach to suck her, won’t give her the full range of his tongue.

All at once, he turns her again, onto her back. Without even thinking about it, she lets her legs fall open for him, welcoming him in, wanting him. He’s nibbling at her thigh, then looks up, straight into her face, straight into her eyes. 

She doesn’t know what he sees there, but he surges up to kiss her, propping himself over her. She can taste herself on his lips, feel him murmuring against her mouth. She’s not sure what he’s saying, what he’s trying to say; it’s rough-voiced and sweet, broken up by kisses. Then he drops back down.

He kisses her belly, hooks one of her thighs over his shoulder, holding her steady as he moves in. He licks around her outer lips before moving in to her clit, as if he really doesn’t want to leave an inch of her untouched. She’s already wet and shaky as he slides two fingers into her, touching her inside and out. He’s enjoying her, all of her, chasing her shivers in the same way that he’d wanted to stroke her whole body. When she comes, she can feel him humming and purring against her. He rests his cheek on her thigh afterwards, one hand stroking her hip, watching her come down.

He wants her on top after that, wants to see how she moves. He keeps stroking his hands up her thighs, up her sides, before cupping one breast and reaching for her clit. He’s smiling again, the widest smile he has.

“You,” he says, looking up at her. Suddenly, Furiosa wants more of him. She tips forward, hand on the bed beside his head, leaning in to kiss him. He puts his arm around her waist, shifts himself to sit up. It’s slightly awkward, trying to keep him inside her as they rearrange themselves, hitching and wriggling. She’s clinging close to him, which doesn’t make it any less clumsy. They’re clamped together when she starts to move again, grinding and grinding. He keeps his eyes on her as she comes again, right there, right next to her, but presses his face to her shoulder when he follows her. 

They sit like that, panting, until the position gets too uncomfortable to hold any longer. She has to deliberately detach herself, make herself let go. She likes the way he rubs the towel over her after they’ve washed. Giving him a cup of water, she catches herself watching the way his throat works when he swallows.

Her bed feels empty when he’s gone, partly because he’s such an insistent presence when he’s here. Even when he’s silent – though he isn’t often silent, with his hums and sighs, the sound of his breath. She’s missed his warmth and his big hands and his full, wet, mouth, the way he hugs her close and tangles himself around her. He’s doing it now, holding her, keeping her warm. 

“Can I – ” He wriggles up, shifting her so that he can kiss her neck, her shoulder. It’s familiar, unexpectedly so. He did this, exactly this, the night before he left. She’d loved it, had told him so. She knows she’s not mistaken: she’d thought of it, often enough, while he was away. It makes her wonder something else, now.

“How you remember it?” She means, how he remembers her, if he’d thought of this in the desert, the way she thinks of him in the Citadel. She doesn’t know how to ask that.

“Yes. No.” His arm tightens around her as he kisses her again. “Better.”

**Author's Note:**

> I'm at [lurkinghistoric](http://lurkinghistoric.tumblr.com/) on Tumblr.


End file.
